


Seven Deadly Stops

by GhostofBambi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Era, F/M, Public Transportation, Stuck on a train
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 21:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20443067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostofBambi/pseuds/GhostofBambi
Summary: "Lily and James meet on a train and do love people stuff" - my take on a prompt from my 10-year-old stepson





	1. First

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from Tumblr, as a reminder that I have to finish this thing!

"Do you think this is Purgatory?"

Lily looks up from her phone. "Pardon?"

"Do you think this is Purgatory?" repeats the man beside her, in the exact same tone of voice, as if she’s simply misheard an innocent question about the weather.

He’s fit, this man. Tall, she can tell, even though he’s sitting. Full lips. On-trend glasses framing lively hazel eyes. Utterly chaotic black hair.

He’s edible, so Beatrice would say.

A nice, tasty snack for the hungry woman about town.

Of course, he’s just asked her if she thinks they’re sitting in the fiery home of expiatory purification, rather than a train headed to Harrow & Wealdstone, so looks are clearly no indicator of sanity.

"Yeah," she says flatly, and slips her phone into the purse she keeps slung around her torso. She’s lost all hope of getting a signal, anyway. "I heard you the first time." She draws her brows together. "What do you mean? What’s the context?"

"You know, Purgatory?" He’s looking at her expectantly. "A place of suffering you enter after you die? This seems pretty fitting, if we _are_ dead," he adds, and jerks his head at the centre of the train carriage, where thirty or so commuters are packed together like sardines in a tin. "I’d rather be stuck _anywhere_ than stuck on the Tube."

He has a point, she supposes.

It’s a minuscule point, faintly dotted in pencil, but still…

The Tube is a disgusting ordeal on a regular day, where Lily must endure the twenty minute journey home from work in a hot, smelly carriage, wedged tightly between a glass partition and an inconsiderate hipster with an overlarge backpack. She has a seat today, at least, but ten minutes have passed since the train stopped abruptly between Embankment and Charing Cross, and not a single explanation has been provided via the crackly tannoy system.

Some bloody birthday she’s having.

"You’re a very morbid person," she concludes, rather than agree with him.

"I’m not, actually," he immediately returns, "but I live with a pretty morbid person. You know the type I’m talking about: devours miserable Russian literature, drinks vodka neat, always wearing black?"

"Not personally."

"Well, that’s the kind of person he is, and it sometimes rubs off on a bloke." He shrugs. "Hence, Purgatory."

"Dante’s Purgatory was a mountain."

"And?"

Lily lifts her hands from her knees to gesture to the space around them. "This is a train?"

"A train with seven carriages."

"How do you know it’s got seven carriages?"

"Because most Bakerloo line trains have seven carriages," he supplies, a faint smile working at the corners of his too-attractive lips. "A mate of mine is really into trains. That’s how I know."

"Is this the same mate who reads Russian literature and influences you to start random conversations about death on the Tube?"

"Nah. Different mate. Those interests don’t exactly coexist in peace."

She takes a moment to consider this before she offers another response, studying his face with deliberate suspicion etched across her own. Such an expression is ideally suited to mask her admiration of his features. It buys her time to contemplate the conversation they are having, to weigh out a multitude of options in her head.

Articulate, handsome stranger? Unhinged lunatic? Tasty snack? Murderer? Cannibal? God forbid…a _Brexiteer?_

"What’s your name?" is the probing question upon which she finally settles.

That hint of a smile becomes something more pronounced. "James."

"I’m Lily," she offers, along with her hand. "Nice to meet you."

He takes her hand immediately, lifts and drops it once before he lets it go, firm and proper. "Nice to meet you, too."

"You do realise, James," she continues, with her best stern expression, "that this is an alienating topic to broach to a stranger, right? There was no way of telling how I might have reacted to that. I could be recently bereaved. I could be offended."

"Are you either of those things?"

"Not remotely, but that doesn’t dilute my point."

James lifts one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug. "Does it help any if I explain that I’m pretty much an expert in saying the wrong thing?"

"I’m shocked," she says dryly. "Truly."

"I mean, I can _articulate_ the wrong thing like nobody’s business—"

"Do you generally take pride in your failings?"

"If I can do something well, I’ll choose to be proud of it."

"Right," she says, and blinks several times. "So we _are_ in Purgatory."

"How’d you reckon that?"

"There are seven carriages, right?" Lily reminds him, lifting a questioning brow. "Seven levels on the mountain? The first of which is…"

"Pride," he concludes, and breaks into a wide grin.

"Right," she agrees. Her face is starting to warm, but they’re stuck here on a packed train, both clad in their thick winter coats, feeling the heat of the countless other bodies who occupy their space and air. Should Lily’s face grow as red as her hair, she has an easy scapegoat to which she can assign all blame. "Pride. Which you’re blowing right past."

"Excellent news. We’ll reach paradise in no time."

"If you consider Oxford Circus akin to paradise, then sure."

"Oxford Circus has a Kintan, I’ll have you know," says James, his tone flat, gaze pointed. "Ever tried Japanese barbecue? That’s pretty bloody close."

Lily tries to suppress a laugh but it escapes before she can snag it, bubbling out into the world with a carefree, girlish abandon, and James’s very serious expression dissolves into a grin, identical to the last one, but better. Somehow.

He is to be a snack then, Lily privately concludes.

A legit snack, as Beatrice and Kristen Bell might say.

Some bloody birthday she’s having.


	2. Second

He’s not a Brexiteer, she shortly learns.

The train hasn’t moved in at least thirty minutes and Lily is definitely going to miss her reservation if it doesn’t shift soon, resulting in one angry sister and at least five passive-aggressive text messages about disappointed hopes.

Petunia knows how to shoot for the guilt valve. She could make it an Olympic sport.

Lily is twenty-six years old today, and quite familiar with her sister’s manipulative tricks, but sometimes the shot lands true and busts that valve wide open. She is not immune to Petunia’s arrows, though she is less susceptible than others.

Still, the tasty snack she’s just befriended is not a Brexiteer.

He might still be a cannibalistic murderer, but he is adamantly pro-EU.

Every cloud has a silver lining.

"Ever been to Côte Brasserie?" she asks him, shifting in her seat to ward off a numb bottom that somehow feels inevitable.

James frowns slightly. "Is that the French place?"

"Yes."

"I’m not a fan of French food."

_"All_ French food?"

"I’m not a fan of France, full stop," he says decidedly, and with a look of distaste thrown in for afters. "Ever been there? They’re all smug bastards."

So her tasty snack is not a fan of _every_ country in the European Union, but that’s not a dealbreaker.

"You shouldn’t subscribe to stereotypes," she airily retorts. "The French would say we’re all badly dressed—"

"I’ve _never_ worn socks with sandals."

"—and uptight, _and_ sexually repressed."

"Well," he says loftily, "now you’re just digging into my personal life."

"But suggesting that we’re both dead is an acceptable segue into friendly conversation?"

"Acceptable or not, it worked."

"And?"

"I’m not sexually repressed, _Lily."_

"And I’m thrilled for you, _James,"_ she returns, smiling slightly as she mimics his stubborn tone, "but could you answer my original question?"

"Yes, sorry. No, I’ve never been to Côte," he admits, lifting one hand to scratch the top of his head. His hair is fucking _beautiful,_ so much so that the adjective deserves the italics, not to mention the preceding profanity. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I’ve never been either, but I’m heading—well, I was _supposed_ to be heading there for dinner with my sister, but that seems unlikely now."

"Oh, shit."

"Sounds about right."

"This transport system is such bollocks."

"Tell me about it."

He drops his hand into his lap, cocking his head sideways. "Maybe they’ll keep your table if we get moving soon?"

"It’s the person sitting at the table I’m worried about," she darkly intones, and slides her hand into her purse, her fingers closing around her phone. "My sister is what you might call high-maintenance, but not the good kind of high-maintenance."

"Elaborate?"

"I mean she’s the kind of person you have to walk on eggshells around because she gets off on feeling mistreated," Lily continues, "but the things she gets offended about are never things that matter, just trivial nonsense—like, if I don’t ‘like’ one of her Facebook photos, she’ll assume that I’m slyly calling her ugly." She withdraws her phone and waves it in the air. "And since I’ve not been able to text her since the train stopped, she’s naturally going to assume that I’m standing her up on purpose."

"Really?" He pulls a face. "Not that you’re, like…in peril or something?"

"My being in peril would really put a dampener on Petunia’s perpetual victimhood."

"Your sister’s name is Petunia?"

Her phone is returned to her purse. "Spotted a theme, have you?"

"I think I understand why she’s so unpleasant, with a name like _Petunia,"_ he says with an accompanying laugh. "She might as well have been born with dentures and a zimmer frame. Is she older or younger than you?"

"Older."

"Well, there you go," he simply concludes. "She’s madly jealous."

"Of what?"

"Of _you,_ obviously, and the pretty name your parents denied her. That’s what we in the business call 'basic psychology,’" he adds, and taps his temple with one finger. "You’re welcome for the breakthrough."

She glides serenely past the implied compliment, but glances at it over her shoulder with some interest as she goes. "And what business would that be?"

He doesn’t blink an eyelid. "Haircare products."

"Haircare—" She lets out a loud, stuttering laugh, and he rewards her with another blindingly lovely grin. "Proximity to the human brain doesn’t grant you a full working knowledge of human psychology, you know."

"I know," he agrees, "but it fit the theme of the evening."

"The theme being?"

"I blew us straight past Pride, remember?" James lands a gentle karate chop to the palm of his own hand. "Second stage: Envy. Your sister’s a bloody shoe-in."

She rolls her eyes. "You’re reaching."

"Am not."

"Don’t get me wrong, you’re reaching with great accuracy—"

"As long as I’m right, it doesn’t matter how I got there." He slumps back in his seat with a satisfied smile. "Boom, got you. No regrets."

He is so very attractive.

It is so very hot on this train.

"Her husband’s name is Vernon," Lily quietly offers.

James lets out a quick, rough, viciously amused sound. "Of course it is. Nothing else makes sense. How big of an arsehole are we talking?"

"Well, he’s racist and sexist, and totally homophobic, and he thinks that Trump talks a lot of sense," she lists aloud, counting her brother-in-law’s many fatal flaws on her fingers, "he’s into fox hunting in a big way and he often yells at waiters, so yeah, I’d say he’s hitting every major benchmark."

"I get you," says James, nodding wisely. "Fell out of the arsehole tree and hit every branch on the way down, right?"

"Vernon _is_ the arsehole tree, and all must fear his branches."

"Good old Vernon."

"I always thought that getting married meant you’d found someone who you could be your best self with, but it seems to have worked the opposite way with them," says Lily thoughtfully. Her slightly narrowed eyes land directly upon his. "Or with Petunia, anyway. She’s definitely gotten snobbier, but I don’t think Vernon _could_ get any worse."

"Maybe they _have_ become their best selves," James suggests, "from their perspective, I mean."

"Their totally damaged perspectives? Might be."

"Vernon," James blankly repeats, like he’s trying to discern the flavour of something strange and unpleasant. "You know, I personally hold with the belief that if you can’t mash a couple’s names together, they’re pretty much dead in the water."

"What d’you mean?"

"I mean…how do you combine Petunia and Vernon in a way that sounds good?" He lifts his hands as if to demonstrate a hopeless situation. "Petunon? Verunia?"

Lily snorts. "Verunia sounds like verruca."

"It does, doesn’t it?" he agrees, and grins at her. "Possible name for a daughter?"

"Verruca Dursley," says Lily flatly, appalled by how fitting it sounds. She’s even more appalled by how much she’s grown to fancy a stranger in less than thirty-five minutes, but she shunts that matter aside. _"Christ."_

"Sounds delightful, doesn’t she?"

"Heaven save us all."


	3. Third

"What’s the angriest you’ve ever been for no good reason?"

There’s a line fault—a bad one, from the sounds of it—and when the static sound of this overdue announcement has barely faded from her eardrums, James decides to level Lily with this most unexpected question.

He has been inspired, perhaps, by the stiffly contained rage which thrums across the expressions of their surrounding fellow passengers.

James has also shucked his coat, and the arms of his red plaid shirt are pushed up to his elbows.

His forearms are magnificent.

He’s edible, truly. Who said he was a snack? He’s clearly a three-course meal.

"Are you trying to transition into Wrath?" Lily asks him, accompanying her suspicion with the delicate lift of an eyebrow. "Is this a thing now? Are we covering all seven?"

There’s a nonchalant twitch of his shoulders. "The train won’t move until we do."

"Oh, won’t it?"

"Call it intuition."

"Or nonsense."

"Or intuition."

"Or nonsense."

"Believe what you want," he says calmly, "but you’ll be dead embarrassed when I turn out to be right."

"Or I’ll chalk it up to coincidence," she counters, then frowns as another realisation occurs to her. "What makes you think that I get angry for no reason? I _rarely_ get angry. I am a paragon of grace and poise. I am _zen,_ you presumptive shit," she finishes, with a fiercely pointing finger. "Practically horizontal!"

"She said, passionately."

"Shut up. You’re stereotyping."

His too-smug, too-attractive grin slips from his face. "How?"

"Just because I’m a redhead—"

"I don’t believe _any_ stereotypes about redheads," James insists, cutting over her with vigour, "except the one where you have secret magic powers, which is basic common sense."

"Well, _yeah,_ but that one’s true."

"Knew it!" he cries in triumph, but then… "Though I still want proof."

Lily balks, her mouth falling open, a likely terrible picture of complete consternation. "You just said you believed it!"

"And I bet you believed in Santa when you were a child, but given the chance you would’ve taken proof."

"Well, fine, if you have no faith in me at all. Fine." She takes a quick sweep of the train, her eyes flitting from one passenger to another until she finds her target—a tall, slim, undeniably ginger man about their age, who is nodding along to his earbuds and sporting a _My Little Pony_ hoodie. Each to their own, she supposes. "See that redheaded bloke over there?"

James’s eyes follows her line of vision. "Sitting in front of the weird brown stain?"

She nods toward her innocent victim. _"He_ thinks—well…" Screw it, she might as well. James will think she’s bold and daring. Happy birthday, Lily Evans, here’s a flirty new persona. "He thinks you’re really fit."

James’s lips give the barest of amused twitches, but she can see the thrill that dances in his eyes. "Does he now?"

Lily offers him a shrug. "Told me telepathically."

"Well, isn’t that something?"

"He really likes your hair."

"Who wouldn’t?"

"No idea, I myself have no opinion on your hair or your looks or your forearms." She’s cooler than a cat, she is. Lighter than silk. Totally unaffected. Pay no mind to the colour rising rapidly in her cheeks. "I’m just reporting on what I’ve heard."

"You’re truly committed to honest communication, aren’t you?"

"Committed like no other, my friend."

"So, d'you think could you pass on a message to your mate over there?"

"I most certainly could."

"Cool," he says, and inclines his head toward her, his voice dropping down to a whisper. She can feel the warmth of his breath by her ear. "Could you tell him that I’m flattered, but kind of into a different redhead?"

Seconds tick by, innumerable breathless, loaded seconds, and Lily’s heart is fluttering.

Somebody somewhere else coughs loudly into their fist.

"You lied!" she cries delightedly, twisting in her seat to better face James fully, her knees knocking freely into his.

He makes no effort to hide his happy grin. "What d'you mean, I lied?"

"Earlier, when you said that you were an expert in saying the wrong thing—"

"I am!"

"You’re not!"

"I think that’s a matter of opin—"

"No, it’s not, you flat-out lied. You’re _charming."_ She levels it at him like a malediction, eyes narrowed, one finger shooting out to stake her claim in the centre of his chest. "You _pretend_ you’re not, with your talk about death and your detailed knowledge of trains that you’re pinning on a nonexistent friend—"

"He’s real!" James cries, smiling broadly. "His name is Peter, he donates to the transport museum—"

"Don’t believe you," she says flatly. Her cheeks must be brighter than a glow stick at a rave. "It’s all a ruse. You probably stopped the train on purpose. This is all a huge conspiracy. You probably _run_ TFL."

"Why would I be taking the Tube if I ran TFL?"

"I don’t know, it could be an Undercover Boss situation."

"The Undercover Boss works _with_ his employees in the kitchen, he—"

"Or she."

"He or she doesn’t sit in the restaurant ordering crab." He gestures around the train. "What kind of recon do you think I’m doing here?"

"Customer satisfaction survey."

"Customer satis—" He gapes at her in silence for a moment, but his lively hazel eyes are completely alight with amusement. "Right, I see. So in the last five minutes, we’ve established that I run Transport for London and you can read the minds of other gingers?"

"I can’t _read their minds,"_ she drawls, all eye-rolls and put-on condescension. "It’s a mutual exchange of information."

"And you want me to believe that Twilight Sparkle over there told you I was fit?"

"You can’t prove that he didn’t."

"And _you_ can’t prove that I’m sitting at the top of a citywide conspiracy," James retorts. "So here we are, deadlocked."

"Fine," she agrees. "Here we are."

She stares him down and he stares right back, winning their contest handily, but only because her lily white cheeks are useless in the war against her blushes.

A three-course meal sounds pretty bloody good.

"I don’t like being called strawberry blonde," she admits, after a very brief silence. She might do something stupid if she doesn’t talk instead—like ask him out, or stealthily attempt to lick the hollow of his throat—and that would be terribly inappropriate.

James’s eyebrows knit into a slight frown. "What?"

"You asked what made me angry for no good reason," she reminds him. "That’s what does it."

"But your hair’s dark red," says James, and takes a strand between his fingers. He gives it one tug before his hand returns to his own bubble of space, but not before Lily’s nerves perform the inner-body equivalent of a hyperactive keyboard smash. "Why would anyone call you strawberry blonde?"

"Out of pity," she says darkly. Distastefully. Her heart is skipping about like a newborn lamb, but she keeps her expression neutral. "It’s a conciliatory thing—they don’t like red hair and assume that I must _hate_ having it, and therefore need to be pitied, so they tell me, ‘oh, you’re not _really_ a redhead, you’re _strawberry blonde,’_ like it hasn’t even occurred to them that I might like my red hair. Which I do," she adds. "I _love_ my red hair."

"You should, it’s gorgeous."

"I’ve never dyed it. Not once."

"Why would you want to?" James agrees. "D'you know how many people spend _hundreds_ of pounds a year to have hair the same colour as yours?"

"A lot, I’d imagine."

"Multitudes," he says firmly. "And I should know, yeah? Because I work—"

"In haircare," she finishes, smiling. Her elbow seems to move of its own accord, nudging gently against his. "Because you’re not the head of TFL."

"Not even slightly," says James, returning her nudge, and her smile, and Lily might actually be furious if this stupid train ever moves.


End file.
